Letters
by NorthernTrash-x
Summary: Genkai/Toguro. Sometimes, she still wrote him letters, if only to burn them afterwards.


Genkai x Toguro

_And the truth is I've been dreaming  
__Of some tired, tranquil place,  
__Where the weather won't  
__Get trapped inside my bones  
_Bright Eyes

**Letter to a Far Off Mind**

To Toguro, who has been gone so long and has gone so far that he might as well be dead to me,

I am writing you a letter today, though don't think anything of it, for I know that I will not. I don't even really know why I am wasting this ink on you. This means nothing, you know, nothing has changed, though I have to admit that sometimes I do wonder where you are and what you are doing, but that questioning rarely lasts long before it slips into revulsion and an innate and heavy anger, that makes me feel like I'm burning inside. You disgust me still, I hope you know that, and it does not shame me to admit that this urge to speak to you comes from a deeply rooted belief that there are still too many things due to be said, between you and I, that I must one day speak aloud for you to hear.

Maybe one day we will get a chance to voice them, maybe I will die before then; maybe our paths will cross and both of us will be struck dumb, volumes spoken only with our eyes- maybe that will be enough. Let that be enough. No, in fact, I change my mind (it's my prerogative to do so) and I say let me die before then, having _forgotten_ you entirely.

You would call me ravaged, I think, could you see me as I am now, though I do not suppose that I am too old yet, just a little weary. There are days now when I wake and wish only to stretch in dappled sunlight like a well-contented cat, but I know that it is not for me to indulge in such simple pleasures: now, the task to which I was once so devoted seems to becoming more and more tiresome, though I do not go about it with any less belief in its dignity and necessity. I am older, then, I will concede: older and more tired and you're not here, as you once were, to make me feel alright again. Now my joints ache a little in the mornings when I first wake, and it is always harder to get up again.

You will be as young as ever, when today I saw a thread of grey in my hair and was startled by the contrast. It is my first grey hair and I resisted the initial urge to pull it out: some of us wear our growth with pride, you know. You wouldn't understand that, of course. You will never know the kiss of silver, which is a shame, because I often wondered what it would feel like to grow old besides you, live besides you, even share a grave besides you.

We would have embraced eternally then, skeletal and beautiful in the dank, reducing earth, at peace together.

Would you despise me now, as much as I do you? I hate myself for needing to know that, but you see, I recall you as you once were- Toguro the man, my Toguro, who walked by my side and kissed me with an infinite tenderness; a man who (do you remember this?) used to catch trapped moths in your great hands and set them free through the window to bask in silver moonlight. I bet now they wither in your wake. I bet now you don't even care, and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you so much for taking that man away from me and I hate you, I hate you so much and I love you, I loved you.

You loved me, once.

But I suppose time has passed, hasn't it? I can feel it, deep down inside me. It's something cold and hidden, in some place that I can't find to heal. I'm not sure that I would be able to, even if I did know where it was.

I want to go to a place now, far away from people, somewhere far away from everything, where clouds don't obscure the sun and lightning flashes of love don't run my night vision, my ability to see monsters in the dark. There are too many monsters in those impenetrable shadows, after all- and we both know far too much about that. I have grown far stronger, you know, and so have you, and I wonder if you would ask me if I regret staying human, but I don't. I will never regret that decision, though old scars still itch and faded bruises still sting, and sometimes I still think I can still see them, like blossoming and impossible insects underneath my skin.

Old wounds still feel as if they are bleeding sometimes and on occasion I find myself waking in the night with a mouthful of blood from biting down too hard to stop myself from screaming aloud.

There are days when it still feels like my heart is breaking, breaking, breaking.

The day we meet again, if ever we do, may be decades from now. By then I will be stronger, wiser, calmer. Aged, ancient, grey, and then I will be able to look you in the eye once more without flinching, without hurting. Then I will be as old and wise as the mountain, and you would think me a failure. But I have life in me yet, and I am still young, I suppose, though you would not believe it.

This morning I picked up a pen, because I missed you, and I hate that I miss you even now, when I know that we are worlds apart.

I write you letters, and then I burn them. I hope you can taste the ash on the wind.

I hope it fucking makes you choke.

Once yours,

G.


End file.
